The Fragile Blossom That Opens In The Snow
by MrsRoy
Summary: They reach a snow-crowned pinnacle, and see behind them, the deep valley stretching miles away. She is fire and ice. The touch of her hand burns like the firelight's glow, and still, he needs her.
1. Chapter 1

**This is my first dip in the Harmony pool! I have read so much awesome Harry and Hermione, I just had to have a go.**

**I don't own them, I just share.**

**If there is interest, this might become the prologue for a longer story. To be posted at Portkey also!  
**

**Please enjoy. Let me know what you think. Don't forget to review.**

Hermione sits with her knees tucked up under her chin, her weary head rests upon her arm and beyond the stark shapes of trees the snow is bitter. There is nothing more beautiful than the forest clothed in brilliant white, but she knows, that just as her heart thaws, so too will each frail flake dissolve away, crying a river.

Harry's face is stony, his eyes steely. His gaze remains focused on the rough slew of grainy canvas that breaks his line of sight. She watches him, but observes nothing. He does not move, lest he respond to the threat of his emotions.

He won't do that to her. He will not temper the tyrant.

In her mind she whispers, over and over again that she's sorry, that she should have been more careful with their saviours wand.

Every time she tries to open her mouth, she fears retribution. That the only one who understands might turn his face, turn his back upon the setting sun.

She thinks that Ron would have known how to diffuse the situation. He has always been the buffer between the head and the heart, obnoxious to the divine art of subtlety that sustains them.

Harry's posture is tense, his body is stiff and his arms fall to his sides where he stands. His hands are clenched into fists and his nostrils hiss when he exhales. His breath is steady and even, heavy, as he forces the pain from his mind.

She does not blame him; she made a mistake, one that may have cost them everything.

She only hopes that her own wand will suffice.

The cold night air chills her to the bone. The winter is cold. The winds whistle. The knitted jumper that she wears rides up over the small of her back, exposing her skin to the elements, and she trembles. But she refuses the warmth that a charm can provide, she won't indulge herself. She does not deserve the luxury. Not while Harry suffers.

As she swallows the sentiment, Harry falters in her peripheral vision. She understands his need to be prepared, but he has been standing for hours, his legs are heavy with the burden upon his shoulders.

She approaches him with her arm extended. Her fingers brush the fabric that clothes his arm and she speaks before he demands that she revoke her touch.

"Harry, please sit down. Just for a moment."

He knows that he should listen, his body is weary and he could do with the rest. But he has his pride, and his father's penchant for sulking. He ignores her pleas.

"Harry, please," She tries again.

This time he turns on his heel, turns and stares at Hermione.

The silence claws at her heart. Spiteful words might hurt her feelings, but the silence he extends, it breaks her heart.

She steps forward, stifles a sob with the cuff of her sleeve and hiccups a muffled moan before reaching out to touch his face.

He covers her hand with his own. Thick fingers trapping her palm against the heat of his rigid jaw.

Hermione's eyes close and she wills the tears back. Expecting him to push her hand away, she is surprised when his thumb glides slowly across her knuckles, back and forth, a soothing motion that always serves to calm her fragile conscience.

"Hermione."

Her name slips past his lips like a prayer. An admission of weakness, he needs her strength for the journey ahead. He is not afraid of dying. Imagining life without her, without Hermione, scares him to death.

She licks her lips and leans into his embrace.

His breath is warm on her neck; it tickles her ear as he inhales her scent, a musky balm of sugar and spice that arouses him, intoxicates him.

She rises to her toes, her hands braced against the solid expanse of his chest, and his lips push on hers with force, bruising her mouth with desire.

He does not think about Ron. He does not think about Ginny.

His tongue follows the line of her bottom lip, and he walks her backwards, to the cot that beckons over her shoulder. She fumbles with his zipper, rasping it down before she is on her back.

He does not need a wand for this, they were right, he is powerful. With a flick of his wrist her jeans are vanished, his own now pooling at his feet as he hovers above her, holding his weight up on one arm.

Hermione's eyes are wide with surprise, but she does not scare easily. It's going to hurt, but there is pleasure in pain.

He can't find his voice, so he stares down at her; she looks so tiny beneath him. Behind the round rimmed glasses, his eyes ask the question. She has never been able to deny Harry. She reaches up to stroke his face.

"Yes," She breathes.

Though few words are spoken, he understands.

The tips of his fingers graze her abdomen, causing heat to pool at the apex of her thighs. He follows the line down to her swollen flesh, his own arousal aching as his fingers delve into the heat of her delicate folds.

There is no preamble and she cries out when he sheaths himself in her warmth. He has to look away; he cannot bear to see her cry.

He grits his teeth and sets his jaw, but he is deathly still. It's about her too, and he has already taken too much.

She bucks against him. Her hips leave the mattress and she arches her back, holding him between the cradle of her thighs.

He takes a long, steady stroke, thrusting his hips forward, before he withdraws and does it again. The first time will be slow; he will take his time with her, loving her with every little piece of him.

She clutches his jumper, her eyes are watching him and she can see the film of sweat that glistens on his brow. She draws her knees up and allows them to fall open. He goes deeper, inch by inch, she watches him disappear until she is sure that she can feel him at the neck of her cervix.

Harry swallows thickly. The tears burn his lids and he forces them back.

She sacrificed her education to be by his side. Defended him, supported him, saved him.

Harry lowers himself; he covers Hermione, his free hand holding her head in the palm of his hand. His thumb grazes her lip, her nose, her forehead. There's no need for them to talk. Their actions speak louder than words.

He wants this moment to last, he is close to fulfillment and he fears that he will disappoint her. But she clamps down and convulses around him, her fingers cutting into his shoulder, he leans forward, his tongue dipping into the arc between her shoulder and the column of her neck.

Her body quivers and her gaze remains trained solely upon Harry.

She can feel the moment he follows her, his body stills, tense and hard, the rugged plains of his abdomen trapped against her soft curves, hard angles and creamy flesh. He offers his potential for life, losing himself deep inside her pliant body as he comes.

Tears stain his face; they forge a path along his cheek, falling from the tip of his nose.

She was innocent before she met him, before all of this was thrust upon her and she threw caution to the wind with wild abandon.

"It's okay. It's okay." She whispers, her voice rough with the rigors of their coupling.

Experience has destroyed their innocence.

Sadness and despair claims him, but Hermione consumes him, beyond all. She is wholesome and pure. Her courage will be his victory.

He's still inside Hermione when he falls asleep. He has rolled them onto their sides, his arm is slung across her hip and her arms grip his neck, she refuses to let go. Not now, not ever.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN – So obviously I have continued on with the story. Thank you for those continuing on with me, it means a lot. **

**You'll notice I don't write very big chapters, I believe content is more important, and I strive for a well rounded chapter rather than a load of waffle. I am also dealing with significant health issues that make it hard to produce tens of thousands of words per sitting. **

**Hopefully this chapter answers some of the questions that were left in comments for the last chapter. Enjoy, and please feel free to review.**

**I don't own them. **

When Ron returns, they're gone.

The embers of the campfire smoulder, still glowing. He stirs the ashes, noting how the wind picks up. They have not been gone long, but he knows that wherever Harry and Hermione are, it's enough of a head start and he'll struggle to catch them. He clenches his fists in rage. _Selfish. _The two of them are selfish, self righteous gits. If they want to think only of themselves, then he has a family who need him.

Twigs tremble and snap beneath the weight of his boots as he turns on his heel. And then he is gone again.

"Maybe we should have waited, Harry …"

Hermione pulls at the hem of her jumper, her nervous fiddling relieving her of the conversation that will just as surely come in time.

"We don't need him, Hermione," Harry says absently, his voice hard and cold, his emotion secure as he digests his intimacy with this woman. He experiences thoughts and feelings conjured by a heart of longing. Passion so sensual, he had never expected, a moment of joy that has left him exhausted, his soul strengthened.

He watches her shoulders slump and finds himself irritated. Had it been purely physical? A careful inventory of the past few hours does not disclose the fact that she had simply taken what was at hand. Would Hermione lie to him? Could she?

_Sex without love is a meaningless experience,_ He thinks bitterly.

Holding a grudge is pointless. There is nothing in the world that he can change. There is no cure for jealousy.

He lets her wear the locket. He can't say no to her. Of the three of them, she has always been the strongest, her disciplined mind guarding against misfortunes. She is shaped by her thoughts, and in the back of his own mind, he struggles with the possibility that he has tainted her purity.

Harry watches her nimble fingers shift the locks of wayward hair into the collar of the thick-weave knit coat that covers her shoulders. He swallows thickly. What he wouldn't give for one more breath, one more kiss, just to touch. A misplaced wisp that moves with the motion of the nippy breeze triggers a memory that makes him smile.

"_Has anyone seen a toad? A boy named Neville's lost one."_

He'd been stunned, the ferocity of this young girl. His breath caught in the back of his throat, he'd been in no fit state to open his mouth. He could barely concentrate. Not even the sweets he had purchased had heralded such merriment. A taste of the rainbow on offer, the seats were adorned with gleefully bound treats, gold leaf etched into the card that he gripped in the palm of his sweaty hand. But they had paled in comparison to Hermione …

His fingers twitch and his whole body aches as he comes to the sobering realisation that Hermione has grown up, she has grown into her skin, luscious skin, smooth like velvet. Hermione has become a woman, the very essence of the word.

His blood courses, a delicate flame within his veins. She calls to him like a Siren's song, and a wet sweat bathes him, a quivering seizes control of his body. He looks on her with veiled eyes. Life is waiting for him.

"Hermione," He calls after her. "Wait up, Hermione."

Hermione pauses briefly, turning to question Harry. She finds herself surprised instead when he takes up her hand and skips his thumb over the length of her knuckles. His actions have always spoken to her.

Hermione sighs and they walk together in silence.

The river winds, and the ice beneath their feet is slippery, but it's restful. The silvery haze plays in the reflection of his glasses, and from the corner of his eye, he senses movement. His footsteps slow and he tugs Hermione's arm, hoping that she too will cease her movements.

"What is it, Harry?"

Hermione furrows her brow and steps closer to Harry. She opens her mouth to enquire again, but is halted when he raises his index finger and covers his lips, a request for the absence of sound. She nods, and watches as he extends his hand, his arm pointing across the space between them, beyond the clearing, into the tree line. Hermione's eyes follow his gaze.

"A doe," She gasps," And then covers her mouth with both hands, her woollen mittens muffling the audible resonance.

"A Patronus," He whispers, and his skin begins to prickle. He believes that it's little more than coincidence.

"We have to follow it, Hermione."

Hermione shakes her head, she is defiant. Calculating the risk associated detracts from the idea. It goes against every single one of her instincts. It's not practical. It's not safe.

"What if it's a trap, Harry? What if we are walking right into a trap?"

He turns back to Hermione.

"Do you trust me?"

She knows that she has been defeated.

"Of course I do. You know that."

His finger traces the line of her jaw, his hand captures her chin and he tips her face up to his gaze. He is adamant.

"I won't leave you behind, so you'll have to come with me."

Hermione wills her knees not to buckle as she feels herself falling. Determined not to surrender, she simply nods her acquiesce, albeit, reluctantly. Her heart thunders beneath her ribcage. Some emotions don't make a lot of noise, but when he looks at her through his mother's eyes, her heartbeat echoes through her body for a fleeting moment.

Her wand is extended before them, like an olive branch, from the uppermost bough. Harry keeps Hermione tucked firmly behind him with his free arm. They move with synchronised steps, slowly and deliberately, before the magic evaporates and they're left with nothing.

They find themselves huddled together upon the banks of the great frozen pond that stretches before them. Relinquishing her touch, Harry is drawn to the ice, absorbed in the pleasures of long held promise.

Hermione utters a silent prayer beneath her breath and waits with nervous anticipation. She watches her wand circle the surface, Harry's lips move, but she cannot decipher the words, not until the ice chaps and splits to form a ledge wide enough for Harry to submerge himself. She swallows thickly, feeling stifled by the rush of emotion.

"I've found the sword," Harry informs her upon his return. "I have to go in. I have to get it, Hermione. It's the only way."

Hermione folds her arms around herself, wraps herself in her own embrace, but she still feels numb, like she can't breathe. Harry removes his jumper, his thermal long-sleeve t-shirt, and fiddles with the clasp of his belt while she watches. She is breathless; she struggles to find words, spellbound and aghast, feeling helpless. When he's down to his shorts, Harry lays the tips of his fingers against Hermione's cheek and smiles at her.

"Be back soon. Promise."

He lowers himself into the frigid water and Hermione's lungs feel heavy and she struggles to inhale, like she's swallowing water, her chest burns. Her shoulders shake and invisible hands claw at her throat, wrapped around her neck, choking the life from her. She thrashes, gasping for breath, her face turning blue despite the cold. She tries to focus on Harry, tries to make a sound, but it's hopeless.

Harry clutches the Sword of Gryffindor in his hand as he breaks the surface and pulls himself and the heavy, bevelled weapon back onto the ice. He inhales deeply, trying to infuse his lungs with the air that he craves after holding his breath to retrieve the sword. He makes a fist and pounds the ice, pleased with him efforts, he affords himself a simple smile. Rising to his knees, he identifies Hermione in the distance, but she is far too distracted to notice his animated enthusiasm.

"Hermione," He calls, taking the sword in his hand and pushing himself back up to his feet. He moves across the solid shield that keeps him from plummeting to the depths below. The left foot and then the right, a clumsy shuffle becomes a frantic race against time and he hastens his pace, picking up his heels.

"Hermione," He cries, stumbling over the ice as he makes his way back to her. She is on her knees, her face clenched in agony as she tries to free the locket that adorns her décolletage. Her nails scrape away the pale skin as she chokes, the harder she struggles, the more fatigued she becomes. Her body slumps as Harry reaches her side, his fingers tremble as he foregoes the catch and tries to tear the chain with his bare hands.

"You promised," He reminds her, his fingers around her neck while she wheezes, her sternum failing to rise and fall with the force of her breathing.

"You promised to come with me, Hermione. You promised not to leave me. I have loved you for the longest time. Don't give up on me; do not abandon me like everybody else."

The realisation startles him. This reckless behaviour, she is the reason.

Harry breaks the chain and clutches it between his fingers. Moving toward a fallen trunk, he sets the locket down and turns on his heel to tend to Hermione. She feels cold, her lips are blue and she struggles to keep her eyes open. She is close to death. Harry throws his body over hers, unconcerned with modesty. His own body temperature is low, his pulse is racing, but she needs his warmth. He rubs her arms and pushes the hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. He presses his lips against Hermione's and offers every last reserve he has. He can't use magic; he does not know what else to do.

"You crept up on my heart, Hermione. I am the man who loves you disguised as your best friend. You were always there, just within my reach. You can't leave me now. I needed to feel, I had to know."

Hermione's lids flutter, her chest expands and she convulses as she coughs, but it's the prettiest sound Harry thinks he has ever heard. It sounds like life, like death conquered. He has always known that Hermione is clever; he did not doubt her for a minute.

He shuts his eyes.

"Thank Merlin."

_Thank you Mum. Thank you dad._

Stars dance behind her eyes, her vision is blurry, but she can make out the silhouette slouched over her prone frame, his still-wet body covering her clothed form.

"Harry," She rasps, sucking in air, the pain in her voice, evidence of her trial.

"I'm right here, Hermione. Right here."

Harry pulls Hermione up into a sitting position, settling her in the space of his lap, her legs falling across his hip as he cradles her shoulders against the bulk of his frame.

"You gave me a scare. Are you alright?"

Hermione nods, her hands clutching his shoulders fiercely, his arm slung around her back protectively, his fingers grazing the small of her back. He placed his lips against her temple and presses his face into her hair. She does not know that his feelings have changed, everything can stay the same.

"Horcrux," Hermione manages, rubbing her throat.

She shifts from his lap and he stands, stepping into his jeans, he leaves them unfastened and pulls his shirt back over his head. Destroying a part of the Dark Lord's soul does not deserve dignity, but Harry knows that as soon as he takes action, he can move himself and Hermione to safer ground. They can set up camp; he can keep vigil over her until he's completely sure she is well enough to travel.

Harry grips the sword with both hands, lifting it high above his head; he takes his position, ready to strike. With precision he was unsure he possessed, the blade descends upon the locket. With one swift blow, the honour of the warrior in possession, his shoulders feel lighter. The connection is severed; the pendant erupts in a shower of vapour that throws Harry to the ground. Such an emotional tirade, now decay.

Harry picks up the sword and his jumper. He offers Hermione his hand, and together, they set off back into the clearing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you to those who have braved the story thus far. I appreciate the support, and to be honest, I am quite surprised with the positive reaction.**

**So here is the next chapter, and while this is not _the_ dancing in the tent scene, it was an element I really wanted to capture with that particular song. **

**Please enjoy. Feel free to comment. **

**I don't own them.**

Hermione's shoulders shake as the chill from the air penetrates her pale skin. Tremors wrack her body as she shivers, trying not to think about the cold, or Harry. His fingers must be comfortably numb, wrung out from the dregs of winter.

A fine vapour of flurry falls upon them, collapsing the rich haze of sanguine that descends upon the familiar horizon. The eve is not far. The day will soon become night and the eternal hourglass will again be turned and she can escape to her dreams.

Harry does not welcome the dusk. Far too often he finds himself awake at night, asking himself where it all went wrong. The night is infinite as it passes by. And every day he has to remind himself that just as the last did, so shall another come, another moonlit sky.

A lone path runs its course between the shrubberies, the forest is quiet, the soothing strains of the creek flow unhindered, overflowing with secrets that cannot be gathered. Hidden messages carved into slate.

As soon as Hermione stops, Harry knows that this is where they will rest for now.

"It's as good as we're going to get."

She speaks without turning to seek his approval. She does not realise just how strong his love is for her.

Harry pinches the bridge of his nose, his frigid glasses like ice against the sensitive pads of his fingertips.

"This is fine, Hermione. Great even. Though I won't go quite as far as saying you've outdone yourself this time."

"It's cold, Harry. You need to get out of those clothes and into something warm."

A flick of his wrist and their tent unfolds like a grand marquis, tall and proud. Inside the lighting is subtle, the lamps burning low, oil licking the wick, the flames flickering, gleaming while they sit in the darkness.

Harry watches Hermione as she draws the damp fabric away from her body; his eyes follow the length of her arms where slender fingers emerge, bending and flexing like his own aching joints. He watches as she places the cable knit jumper carefully across the back of the nearest chair and sighs, turning his back to tend to his own state of dishevelled appearance.

His jeans fresh, the blood beginning to flow steadily through his system again, warming his fingers, he turns to see Hermione, her button up flannel like a patchwork of blushing ruby. Like a precious gem, she yields more than gold.

"How do you feel?" She asks politely, the formalities still dormant between them, conversations left undone on purpose. They've already lost one friend.

"Better. Not so cold now," He answers without hesitation.

"Harry," She hedges, moving closer to where he grips the back of his own folding chair.

"You saved my life back there. I could have ..." Hermione struggles to find the right word.

"No." He speaks out of turn. "No, I would not have let that happen. This is a team effort, Hermione."

"Of course," She nods her head, unsure of what else to say. "Well thank you, Harry."

Harry smiles.

"You'd have done the same for me."

She would have. She'd do anything for Harry.

Folding himself back into his chair, Harry flicks the switch on the old wireless and twists the dial between his thumb and forefinger until a string of audible words becomes a chain of melody.

"I miss listening to Muggle music," Hermione sighs.

"Catchy tune," Harry smirks and taps his toes in time with the beat until the tempo slows and the pitch of the heavy baritone voice drops like a stage curtain, intense in effect, warming his conscience.

Harry rises from his chair and takes the few steps across the space between them; he extends his hand, an invitation to dance.

"Come on Hermione, dance with me."

Hermione rolls her eyes and places her hand into Harry's palm, wrapping her fingers around his; she steps forward, placing her free hand on his shoulder. Harry pulls her into his warmth, clutching her waist as he holds her against the plains of his body.

The song whips around them, like the touch of a lover, and Harry's thumb skims the small of her back, a whisper soft touch, skin on skin.

Hermione exhales and drops her head to Harry's shoulder. The words mill around them as they sway, each in the other's embrace, fading into the background while the chorus croons.

'_Lady in red, is dancing with me, cheek to cheek. There's nobody here, it's just you and me. It's where I want to be.'_

"You really like to dance, don't you?" Hermione asks. Her warm breath on his neck tickles his ear.

"Yeah."

Hermione can feel the strings of her heart bow, the short answer, the pain in his voice as it waivers, hoarse with the mystery of his life before Hogwarts. She clutches his hand, lacing their fingers, offering support, a pillar of strength to shroud his weary body.

"Sirius taught me to dance like this. He told me once ..." Harry is silent for the moment; he worries his bottom lip between his teeth and forces the emotion to dissipate.

"He told me that my mother taught him how to dance. She taught my father too. My Grandparents, they liked to dance. I wish I could have seen my parents dancing together, Hermione."

Hermione says nothing. There are no words. She stood by his side when he needed her most. Visiting Godric's Hollow had broken his spirit; Hermione had been there to mend it.

The conversation conjures thoughts of her own parents, protected for their own good, so impossibly far away, across the great rolling ocean, seas between them; distance the likes of which she cannot even fathom.

"Wherever your parents are, they'll be fine, Hermione."

Harry stoops to press his lips against her cheek and Hermione turns her face up to him, mouths meeting with a clash of teeth, bruising as she crushes her lips to his.

Of course he knows what she's thinking. He always knows.

His tongue duels with hers before following the roof of her mouth back down to trace the line of her bottom lip.

Harry backs himself into the chair with Hermione curled onto his lap. One leg each side of his body, they rest upon his thighs, her knees making contact with the underside of the gaunt arm rest.

He lowers her zipper, inch by inch, the rough denim of his own jeans straining against Hermione's belly. Through her knickers he can feel the heat of her core, hot flesh, sopping with moisture. His index finger skims the band of elastic around one leg, scorching his senses; he slips his hand beneath the sodden fabric.

"Hermione," He breathes aloud. What she does to him.

She throws her head back as his knuckles come into contact with her swollen hood. He swallows thickly.

Hermione clutches his shoulder firmly with one hand, trying to lower Harry's zipper, rasping it down in her desperation. He is hard and firm against her hand, and she can feel him swell with her tentative touch.

The position is awkward, Harry keeps her anchored and Hermione daren't let go of his solid frame.

Just like the first time, the aroma of musk fills the air and Harry's nostrils flare with arousal. Merlin, how is it that she knows not, what she does to him.

Hermione is captivated by his charm, summoning to mind the feelings of euphoria the last time they were intimate. The way he felt between her thighs, the way he moved inside her, no barrier between them.

No barrier between them. _No barrier between them._

"No," Hermione pants as she pulls herself away from Harry's grasp.

"Harry, no. Stop."

His hand stills, his body rigid. He extracts his hand without question and holds them both in front of him, an astute sign of surrender.

"No contraceptive, Harry. I hadn't thought about it, not last time we did this I'm afraid."

"Oh," Harry draws a shaky hand through his thick, inky locks. "And magic is out of the question."

It's a statement, not a question.

"... I mean I know the consequences, of course, and I suppose anything is possible, though you are my first ... and only ..." She adds as an afterthought, her face flushed a deep hue of rouge, emphasising her cheeks, as she recalls the instance in which she gave her most treasured to her very best friend.

"Hermione," Harry cuts her off, his sentiment genuine. "Hermione, it's okay. It will be okay."

"Well, I suppose you're not being held here under any certain act of duress. You're in no way obligated to deal with the aftermath, Harry."

Try as he might, Harry fails to stifle the chuckle that slips from his lips.

"Do you want to talk about it Hermione?"

"I don't really see what's so entertaining."

Hermione carefully extracts one leg and then the other, holding the two halves of her jeans together as she moves from her place in Harry's lap.

Harry shakes his head.

"No, let's talk about this Hermione. We've been skipping around it for long enough."

He grips her arm and pulls her back into his body where she falls astride his hips, her hair falling across her face like a veil of densely spun sugar, thick and glossy, still shiny, despite their living conditions.

"I don't think you realise how much I care about you, Hermione."

Hermione furrows her brow and exhales deeply, the knot in her throat constricting tightly like a rubber band, the tension wound resolutely, no resistance in sight.

"You didn't really think it was over when you left Ginny behind, did you?"

He strokes her arm, sweeping his hand up and down the length of her sleeve, pausing at her shoulder before he repeats the motion again.

"There's a reason I left her behind, Hermione, a reason I did not bed her, why I will never be intimate with Gin."

Hermione is speechless as she waits for Harry's explanation.

"She has loved me for as long as I can remember. That much I can't deny. But I think, after I saved her life, it became much more. Maybe she has a hero complex, growing up with a family of older brothers, always having things her way. I don't really think she understands her own behaviour."

Harry pauses for a breath.

"But the main reason I was able to leave her behind is because I really didn't need her. I already had you, Hermione. My best friend. I can do this without Ginny by my side, but I can't do it without you."

Hermione smiles, and just as soon as the corner of her mouth turns up, it disappears again and Hermione frowns.

"And what about us, Harry? What about what happened between us, what could happen between us?" She wonders.

"I know that you think it's terribly irresponsible, but we can't really take it back now, can we?"

Harry shrugs and folds his arm around Hermione's shoulder, his chin resting on her clavicle as he speaks.

"We deal with it, Hermione, just like we have to deal with everything else."

"I have to admit," Hermione says, rather sheepishly, pushing the stray filaments of tousled hair from her forehead, "It was rather nice."

"Yeah," Harry matches her grin. "It was."

Harry yawns, trying, and failing to stretch his limbs while he holds Hermione. Hermione thinks life is too short to be wasting time that can never be regained by yawning, so she ushers him over to the portable cot. She helps him to undress, pulling off his boots and divesting him of jeans, before she does the same herself.

Harry pulls back the thin blanket, making room for Hermione who slips beneath the cover, her back pressed against his chest where his heart thunders and she can feel his pulse rush through her body.

He pulls her flush against his body, his knee tucked in between her thighs; their feet tangled together, the ball of her foot stroking his calf while his hand grips her waist, resting on her hip. His fingers dance over the skin that prickles beneath his touch, like sensuous torture.

"You should sleep," Hermione tells him. How he managed to stave off hypothermia, she will never know.

Her wand is nestled beneath the pillow they share, safely guarded against the evil that roams after sundown.

But Harry doesn't answer. It's the first time he's closed his eyes since their journey for the light began.


End file.
